The roaring log-fire in the corner of the
Wooden hall crackles and hisses
As the story-teller strums on
On the lyre, his honeyed mellow voice
The backdrop to strings plucked and
Flames crackled as he sings
His tune, the tale of an age long ago, of
Heroes and monsters and good and evil
And black and white and adventure
And great terrible underworlds
And the end-days, and he sings so sweetly
And it hardly seems terrifying,
The end of the world and the voyage down, down, down
To the underworld where our great
And noble hero saves his true love who has died
And walks freely out with her bound in his arms
And she loves him so
And they love each other so
And he walks with her for miles and miles far and wide
And they journey together,
The journey goes on and on
Until the end-days,
When the thunder roars and God speaks and rages
And the flames grow higher
And the volcanoes erupt
And spew molten lava
And the earth shakes
And the earth splits
And fissures form, the earth groans,
The end-times are upon us,
And we tremble in fear of the retribution of the Lord
And we repent
And we cry for mercy,
The mercy of the Lord,
The end-times have come,
And we are scared,
And we will die, we know.
But the end-times seem not scary,
No, not with the honeyed, mellow voice
Of the sweetly singing story-teller
In the mead-hall with the great
Roaring crackling fire, bastion of
Warmth in the corner, an anchor to this world that is not ending.